


Presumed Guilty

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Bank Robbery, Gen, Hostage Situations, Hurt/Comfort, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-09 07:26:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17997482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: The law maintains that a suspect is presumed innocent until proven guilty. Unfortunately, that never seemed to apply to Neal Caffrey. However, a dangerous, nail-biting situation did prove that Peter Burke believed in his confidential informant, but could the protective FBI handler ultimately save his partner from the mistrust and dire actions of others?





	1. The Beginning

It was an ordinary and mundane Thursday evening, the day of the week when many banks offered extended hours and stayed open until 8:00 PM to accommodate a work force who had gotten their paychecks and needed folding money. Neal’s small stipend from the Feds was always re-routed to his checking account by direct deposit, but tonight he needed a bit of cash for the upcoming weekend.  He was supposed to be June’s escort to a gallery opening which, thank goodness, was within his radius. He intended to show his gratitude by treating her to dinner afterwards. Neal was all too aware that Peter always routinely checked his credit card history of expenditures. Of course, that rankled a resentful con man, but it made him cautious regarding his charges. However, what Neal did with cash shouldn’t really be any of his nosy handler’s business.

The ATM outside of the bank didn’t seem to be in working order, so Neal stepped inside and took his place behind a short queue of customers awaiting an available teller. Later, Neal would berate himself for not being more observant of his surroundings. A good con man always scoped out his immediate environment, but it seemed that being indentured to the government had dulled his survival skills. Suddenly, without any warning, a male customer that he had failed to notice in an adjacent line began shouting. _“Okay, people, this is a robbery! Everybody down!!”_

For a few nanoseconds, it was as if time was suspended like when you paused a movie playing on a DVD. Then there were frightened shrieks and chaos. The bank security guard had reacted almost immediately by drawing his pistol, but it wasn’t his gun that fired an ominous shot. Neal glanced sideways and saw a masked assailant discharge his own weapon in the sentry’s direction. The uniformed man’s face looked confused for a fleeting moment before he toppled over onto the marble floor. He didn’t move after he landed in a sprawl.

Now there were screams of terror in the room as it quickly became apparent that this was a life-threatening situation, made even more deadly when it became evident that the robber had an accomplice. A second figure strode forward from the rear of the room, similarly unidentifiable with a black cloth obscuring his features. Even though this guy’s face wasn’t recognizable, the object in his hand was. It was, to Neal’s trained eye, a sawed-off shotgun quite capable of spraying a wide explosive swath of murderous mayhem. Like obedient sheep, customers were dropping to the floor and flattening their bodies in a desperate attempt to be less of a target. Neal did the same, but from his low vantage point he watched as the shooter hustled to the counter and told the frightened teller to start putting cash from the tills into a cloth rucksack. He also warned her to skip the banded stacks that contained dye packs. The second man had turned his back to the scene and was intently watching the action on the street just outside of the glass doors.

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter Burke was on his way home from the FBI office, and he was almost to the bridge that connected Manhattan to Brooklyn when a call came in from Jones.

“Peter, we just got a heads-up from the local PD. There’s a bank robbery in progress as we speak, and when officers responded to the silent alarm, a hostage situation developed. Two masked men are holed up in the place with approximately a dozen trapped people. We couldn’t identify the goons because they’ve obscured their identities, but we ran facial recognition on the customers who were captured on the bank’s security cameras when they came through the door. Peter, we got a really big hit. Neal is in that bank!”

Peter broke every vehicular speed law as he placed a bubble on the roof of his sedan and floored it to a now deserted street in Midtown. When he arrived, he witnessed a flotilla of cop cruisers that had cordoned off the thoroughfare. There was only one civilian car remaining on the scene, a generic grey Honda CRV, probably the most driven model in the city. New York’s finest were hunkered down behind their own vehicles with weapons drawn. Peter strode up to the person who seemed to be in charge and waved his credentials as he quickly identified himself.

“Bring me up to speed, Lieutenant!” he barked impatiently.

A tense older man in a topcoat enlightened him. “We got an alert at the precinct at 1840 hours that a robbery was in progress in that Federal bank. Probably one of the tellers managed to trigger a panic button. Nearby patrol cars immediately responded and observed two masked men with guns in the lobby and approximately a dozen people splayed out on the floor. It appears that a uniformed guard has been wounded. We’ve observed no movement from the prone individual, but there’s a big pool of blood surrounding him. Either he’s in really bad shape or the poor guy’s already dead.”

“Did you manage to identify whose car is sitting just outside the doors,” Peter quickly asked. “It’s probably the intended getaway car.”

“Yeah, in a way,” was the quick answer. “The Honda has Jersey plates, but when we ran them, we found that the tags belonged to a Ford Edge SUV rather than a Honda, so these freaks are trying to be slick and cagey. We’re still running down the owner of that vehicle.”

“Any demands yet from the robbers?” was Peter’s next question.

“Nah, not a peep. They’re probably trying to regroup and figure out their next move in this fiasco,” the lieutenant said bitterly. “That’s why we called you guys—Federal banks come under the FBI’s purview, so maybe you can bring in some persuasive hostage negotiator and a few SWAT sharpshooters.”

“That’s currently in the works,” Peter assured the cop, “but we take this one step at a time. Any sniper shooting will place innocent lives at risk. We have to expend every other option before we get to that point.”

“Well, I want to be kept in the loop, Agent Burke,” the New York cop replied firmly. “I don’t want you G-men swooping in like Elliot Ness and taking over. This needs to be a joint operation!”

“Noted!” Peter replied curtly. “You’ll know what I know when I hear it.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It wasn’t long before the army of law enforcement quadrupled in size as the FBI made their formidable presence known. Peter’s own team was at his side with tactical vests in place, and even Reese Hughes showed up when he heard Neal was in the besieged bank.

“Any chance Caffrey’s in on this?” Hughes asked with an arched eyebrow.

The precinct lieutenant heard the comment and was immediately in Peter’s face. “Who's this Caffrey person you’re referring to.”

“He’s my confidential informant,” Peter answered shortly.

“Do you suspect he’s one of the perps?” the cop next asked.

“No, he’s one of the hostages,” Peter stated firmly.

“Well, isn’t that interesting,” the lieutenant replied cynically. “Maybe you do things differently in your neck of the woods, but in my house, our snitches are criminals that we leave on the streets because we have leverage over them. Is your guy a criminal?”

“He’s a White Collar felon,” Peter grudgingly admitted, “but he robbed museums, not banks.”

“Is that so?” the cop snarked. “Maybe your boy decided to expand his horizons. It’s not unheard of for an informant to go rogue and bite the hand that feeds him.”

“Perhaps he has a point, Peter,” Hughes belabored the issue. “Caffrey could have gotten the itch to return to old larcenous habits. He may have gone in there to case the place for his crew before it all went to hell.”

“Neal has never worked with a crew,” Peter objected.

“Then tell me who that irritating little bald twerp is that occasionally pops up from time to time,” Hughes said in reply. “He always looks twitchy and guilty of something.”

“I would have to label Mozzie as more of an associate. He really doesn’t qualify as a crew,” Peter replied, trying to downplay the significance of the conspiracy theorist. “Besides, Neal hates guns. He’d never take part in something like this.”

“Desperate times make for desperate measures,” Hughes intoned solemnly.

The New York City police lieutenant was in agreement. “Until proven otherwise, I’m going to presume your CI’s guilty, even if it’s by association. In my book, he’s a hostile not an innocent. One false move on his part and he gets taken down just like the other two freaks in there. At this point, they could very well be guilty of murder as well as attempted robbery.”

“Don’t get trigger-happy, Lieutenant,” Peter warned. “That won’t end well for anyone.”

“Well, then I guess we’ll just have to see how this all shakes out, won’t we,” came the cold reply.

~~~~~~~~~~

Even though a trained hostage negotiator quickly arrived on the scene, he couldn’t work any magic because the bank robbers refused to pick up the phone inside their impromptu fortress. Finally, in frustration, Peter grabbed a bullhorn and bravely stood up behind the police line.

“Listen up, guys. My named is Special Agent Peter Burke of the FBI and we need to talk. I’m sure you have demands, but I can’t help you out with any of that if you refuse to pick up the phone and tell me what you need. This can end up being a win/win for everybody if you stay calm and are willing to talk to me. Just pick up the phone. I’ll be on the other end to hear what you have to say.”

Ten minutes later, Peter’s plea was rewarded. A rough voice answered the phone and began spewing out venom. “Now _you_ listen up, asshole. We’re in charge, and right now we have a pretty good hand that we can play. Just chill your fuckin’ jets cause if you try to storm this place, it’s gonna end up looking like the Alamo with every last person biting the dust.”

“So, okay,” Peter said calmly, “you’ve made your point and I have no reason to doubt your intentions. What can we do to make this better?”

“Don’t you mean what can you do to even the odds?” the voice sneered. “Not one fuckin’ thing. Don’t you get it? We’re calling the shots!”

“Yeah, I get that, loud and clear,” Peter answered keeping his voice even. “You have a ton of money currently in your possession as well as a lot of lives. I’m sure you also envision an endgame where you make a clean escape. Tell me how that’s supposed to go.”

“Now we’re on the same page, you stupid idiot,” the voice taunted. “ _We_ want to leave all of you out there watching our dust, and if _you_ want these people to continue breathing, you’ll make it happen.”

“Care to be more specific?” Peter asked. “I’m sure you and your pal have discussed different scenarios.”

“Yeah, we’ve thought it through. Me and my buddy are going to come out the front door. Now, don’t go getting an excited hard on cause we’re not gonna be alone. Me and my friend are going to each use a hostage as a shield until we get to our ride. Then all four of us are gonna get a police escort over to Teterboro where there’s gonna to be a helicopter idling its rotors just waiting for us. We don’t want a cop copter with all its fancy bells and whistles and trackers. We want the one the stupid news guy uses to announce traffic reports every morning. That dude can be the pilot to get us over the border to Canada, but if he’s too busy shittin’ his shorts, send in another stick jockey with some balls. You’re going to let us take off and not dog us, ‘cause if you do, you’ll see us push one hostage at a time into the Atlantic. Now, don’t bother calling back until you’ve got everything ready. But don’t take too long. Tick, tock, and all that!”

“So?” the police lieutenant said drolly. “Are you actually going to give in to his demands? I thought law enforcement agencies never played ball with terrorists. And what’s with this Canada shit? Don’t these jerks know about the Canadian Mounties who will arrest them as soon as they touch down?”

“These clowns aren’t exactly terrorists threatening to blow up the city with a weapon of mass destruction,” Peter replied. “They’re just two inept, exceedingly stupid, and desperate men, and cornered rats can do desperate things like killing themselves as well as everyone around them. If we seem to be agreeing to their demands, we’ll have reduced the number of hostages to two instead of six times that many. Once the criminals are on their way, we’ll safely round up the remaining hostages and be able to render aid to the wounded guard, possibly saving his life.  Our snipers could very well get a clean shot after the perps exit the building, but I wouldn’t count on it. However, once they reach Teterboro, the tarmac is much more open and we may get the opportunity to intervene and take control of the situation. Under no circumstances are we going to allow them to them take off.”

“Sounds like a lot of ifs and maybes to me,” the cop grumbled. “Are you sure some shock and awe in the form of tear gas, flash bangs, and your SWAT guys won’t do the trick?”

Peter sighed heavily. “One of the robbers is cradling a sawed-off shotgun in his arms, Lieutenant. Even if he wasn’t capable of aiming, he could still pull the trigger and manage to kill a lot of innocent people as he went down. I don’t think we should take that chance.”

Peter was the recipient of many skeptical looks from the local cops as well as Reese Hughes.

 


	2. The Middle

The atmosphere around the bank standoff was tense. Agents and cops alike fidgeted nervously because they felt hamstrung and frustrated. Finally, after twenty long minutes, Peter was back on the phone. “Okay, my friend, we’ve made all the necessary arrangements just as you asked. It’s time for you to keep your end of the bargain. Just come out slowly and we’ll allow you to get into your vehicle that I’m guessing is the one parked curbside. We’ll give you a clear path to Teterboro, courtesy of a police escort. The chopper is gassed up and the pilot is waiting.”

Peter failed to mention that Jones was going to be sitting in the cockpit of the aircraft. He had been in the Navy and was experienced handling whirlybirds. Right now, the junior agent was just supposed to sit tight after the robbers clamored on board. It was still a work in progress, but Peter felt more confident with one of his own near the center of the action.

There was much tension inside the bank as well. “You think he’s telling the truth?” the show runner’s cohort asked anxiously.

“How the fuck am I supposed to know!” the other man snarled. “But it ain’t like we got any other options. We each just gotta hold on to the money and a human shield and hope for the best.”

Neal was still hugging the floor as he listened to the deadly criminals debate the issue that would determine their fate. When he had first heard Peter’s voice shouting into that bullhorn, the young con man had felt a little spark of hope blossom in his chest. Peter was here and he would figure it out. Then the little imp in Neal’s head began to taunt him. When had a successful, self-sufficient con man ever allowed himself to depend on others to save his ass? Any criminal worth his slick and cunning reputation took care of that piece of business himself. If you found yourself in trouble, then you got yourself out of it. During many past exploits, that’s when Neal’s silver tongue had come in handy. However, now he had to be realistic. In this instance that asset might not be worth much.

The spokesman of the nefarious pair finally huffed out a breath and addressed his sidekick. “Okay, it’s show time. We use women for our shields ‘cause they’re easier to handle. Pick out one for yourself, pal. Maybe take that chubby bitch over there ‘cause she’s got lots of flabby fat to cover you like a blanket. I think I’m going to have this here sweet piece of ass stand in front of me and rub herself all over my dick as we walk out to the car,” the crude man crowed as he grabbed a pretty millennial by the forearm and tugged her to her feet.

The petite young lady in question was dressed in tight yoga pants, athletic shoes, and a designer t-shirt and matching hoodie. She immediately began shrieking in terror and tried to break away from the hold on her wrist. It seemed as if everyone in the bank was suddenly frozen and holding their breaths wondering if the robber would allow her to live. Neal reacted instantly. He was suddenly upright on his knees with his hands in the air in front of him.

“You don’t want to be dragging around a hysterical woman, so take me instead,” he pleaded.

The robber let the woman’s arm drop, strode over to Neal, and slammed his pistol into the con man’s head. That hard blow succeeded in opening a cut over Neal’s left eye that began to bleed copiously onto his shirtfront. “Who the hell asked for your two cents?” the angry man roared.

“I’m jus’ sayin’ is all,” Neal managed to slur, gesturing toward the stricken and moaning female hostage. The girl was pitifully bent over at the waist hugging herself while the crotch of her spandex pants turned dark with escaping urine.

“Fuck!” the abductor swore in disgust. “Okay, dude, it looks like I’m gonna take you up on your generous offer. If you wanna play Sir Galahad, then get your own ass up.”

Neal rose unsteadily to his feet and sluggishly moved to stand before his captor. It wouldn’t do for the bank robber to know that Neal still possessed his cat-like reflexes. He was playing a helpless, submissive role which might give him an edge at some point in this drama.

Eventually, things got sorted into place. “We’re coming out,” the robber shouted as four people crowded towards the glass doors. “If you start shooting, two bank customers are gonna have their brains splattered all over the sidewalk before you can even take us down.”

“I hear you,” Peter answered calmly.

It was an unwieldly knot of humanity that finally ventured out onto the street. Neal was point man. One robber with a canvas bag slung over his shoulder clutched the con man’s left arm tightly while the pistol in the man’s right hand was jammed into Neal’s temple. The other robber was walking in reverse. His body seemed almost glued to his cohort’s back as he dragged a matronly female in front of him while pushing the muzzle of a shotgun into her side.

“Do you guys have a clear shot of anybody?” Peter whispered into the tiny microphone on his wrist that kept him in contact with the FBI sharpshooters. “No joy,” they answered, one after the other, indicating they were hampered by the hostages’ positions.

“Okay, let them get into the vehicle,” Peter ordered. He could only watch in terror as his young partner and his masked captor inched towards a means of escape. Before the bleeding CI disappeared into the back of the Honda, his blue eyes met Peter’s brown ones across what seemed like an ocean of no man’s land. Maybe the Federal agent was projecting his own emotions into that look, but, to Peter, it seemed as if Neal’s eyes were telegraphing, “Got a bit of a problem here, Buddy, so please help me out.”

Once everybody was inside the grey SUV, two in the front and two in the back, it began to peel off, but not before a middle-aged woman was tossed onto the street. That move made some sense to Peter. The wheelman would have his hands full driving the getaway vehicle. It would be much easier for his partner to control just one hostage. Unfortunately, Neal was that unlucky captive.

Hughes was shaking his head from side to side in agitation. “What are the chances that Neal Caffrey would be in that very bank when two other men decided to rob it? And what are the odds that those bank robbers would just randomly decide to take your partner with them, Peter? I’ll tell you what those chances are—they're nil!” Hughes shouted in disgust. “Caffrey is definitely in on this. He played us, and now he’s in the wind with his pals.”

“Reese, did you even get a good look at Neal?” Peter argued. “He’s either been pistol whipped or he was grazed by a bullet. His shirt is a sodden mass of blood.”

“Maybe there was a disagreement among the thieves and it got ugly, but he still went with them under his own steam,” Hughes reminded Peter.

“But not by choice. He had a gun stuck to his head. I’m telling you, Reese, Neal’s in grave danger and we have to try to save him,” Peter said firmly.

Hughes wasn’t buying it. “Open your eyes, Peter, and stop being blinded by Caffrey’s charm and his promises of staying on the level. It was all lip service to make you let your guard down.”

“I am not going to believe that,” Peter said firmly. “Neal is an innocent bystander in all this, and I’ll stake my life on it.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m just not that gullible,” Hughes retorted firmly. “If you hear hoofbeats, Peter, you expect to see a horse not a zebra. Fact facts and realize that your little choir boy CI did a number on you. I’ve spoken to Jones before he left for Teterboro. He’ll be going into that chopper with a concealed weapon. My orders to him were to take whatever opportunity arose to neutralize everybody inside by whatever means possible.”

~~~~~~~~~~

There was no further arguing as Peter and Reese Hughes climbed into a black SUV and joined a long, escorted processional of cop cars making their way out of the city. The fifteen-mile ride to the airport hangar across the Hudson resembled a funeral cortege or maybe even that infamous hour-long slow car chase in California over twenty years ago when CHOPS were tailing OJ Simpson’s white Ford Bronco on a Los Angeles freeway.

After thirty minutes, the whole line of vehicles pulled to a slow halt on the Teterboro tarmac. The Honda was put into park, and three figures slowly emerged keeping themselves protected by staying between the car and the helicopter. Then two men cautiously dragged their hostage and themselves through the open door of the chopper and positioned their bodies on the rear bench with Neal between them. Jones was already in the pilot seat and turned slowly to stare at Neal and two tough-looking strangers who had finally taken off their masks. Neal’s gaze was steady and Jones couldn’t detect any sign of deceit or malice. Somehow, that made him feel a bit better about this dangerous situation because he was now firmly convinced that he had an ally on board.

“Okay, flyboy, let’s get this eggbeater in the air,” one of the robbers demanded.

“Maybe you don’t really want to do this,” Neal suddenly spoke up. “I mean, what’s the point of all this drama? It’s not like you can just take a little joyride, land in Canada, and then disappear into thin air. The authorities will be waiting for your arrival, and they’ll arrest you. You’ll be extradited back to the States and you’ll still go to jail.”

“Been there, done that, and not willing to do it again,” the criminal snarled. “Besides, we ain’t really goin’ to Canada. We intend to get flown to a whole different country. We’re going to Newfoundland. I looked it up on a map once, and it’s a separate island not even connected to Canada. The internet claims it has lots of wide-open, uninhabited spaces so we can hide out until the heat dies down.”

Neal fought the impulse to roll his eyes at this pathetic geographical ignorance, and prayed to a supreme being to save him from stupid morons who, unfortunately, had very real guns. “So, what happens to me and the pilot when we get there?” he asked his captors. “Do we get to play Robinson Crusoe, too?”

“I guess we’ll just have to see about that when the time comes,” was the answer as the man’s pistol now became wedged behind Jones' right ear. “Get us up now!”

Jones didn’t feel he had any choice in the matter. Disobeying orders from his Federal superior, he lifted the helicopter slowly into the air. “You know, I can’t outrun a drone if they decide to shoot us out of the sky,” he calmly told his passengers.

“Well, then I guess you and pretty boy back here go down with the ship just like us,” the bank robber sneered.

As a reluctant Jones lifted the aircraft vertically and reached considerable altitude over the Hudson, the helpless figures on the ground were craning their necks and cursing in frustration. A whole team of New Jersey FBI had previously assembled on the scene but were impotent to lend assistance as the drama unfolded.

“Jones is disobeying a direct order,” Hughes fumed. “What the hell does he think he can accomplish when he’s up in the friggin’ clouds?”

“Neal must have a plan,” Peter said softly. “Neal always has a plan.”

Hughes just snorted and it was obvious he wasn’t buying into Peter’s faith in his criminal CI. The old man vowed that there was going to be hell to pay after this thing was over.

But Neal did have a plan—a last ditch effort to save both his and Jones’ skin. It just depended on whether Jones trusted him enough and would pick up on the subtle communication.

“Hey, Mr. Pilot,” Neal called out as he met Jones’ dark eyes in the rearview mirror, “do you think this flimsy little mosquito could withstand a sudden roll and a steep plunge if we got hit by ground fire and nosedived into the drink?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Jones answered. But he knew they were all going to find out as he suddenly jolted the joystick and the chopper gyrated wildly with gut-wrenching intensity before suddenly plummeting its way towards the blue water far beneath them. Jones kept his eyes off the erratically spinning dials on the instrument panel and stared into that mirror to witness a frantic wrestling match underway in the rear compartment. Neal was engaged in the fight of his life. The robber to his left tried to bring up his shotgun, but Neal’s foot caught him in the chest, and one hard kick propelled the man and his weapon out the still-open door. His screams could be heard over the rushing wind.

Now the young con man was grappling with the other threat to his right. Both of them had their hands around a pistol that was waving dangerously in their grips. Suddenly a shot whizzed by Jones’ ear and the windshield dissolved into a cracked, distorted spiderweb. The junior agent blindly fought to bring the chopper under control but he was losing altitude. Then another shot was heard and Jones saw both Neal and his adversary slump in their seats.


	3. The End

As the helicopter was careening out of control, Jones didn’t have the luxury of assessing anyone’s status behind him. He was virtually flying blind and now relying on the instrument panel to get the chopper leveled out. Eventually, he managed that feat but he suspected he was still hovering over the Hudson River. Suddenly, he saw two beams of light from his side window. Jones could only hope that they were hand-held beacons used by a ground crew to lead him back to the runway in the deepening twilight. He turned the craft in their direction and continued to descend cautiously. It was only thanks to his considerable flying expertise that the skids finally reached terra firma and he could turn off the rotors and breathe a sigh of relief. He immediately turned around with his previously concealed weapon in his hand and caught sight of lots of blood, both on Neal as well as on an unconscious bank robber.

“Neal?” Jones said tentatively.

Neal stirred sluggishly. “Still here, Jones, just a bit stunned. My ears are still ringing from those close-quarters gunshots.”

Not much else could be said because an ominous phalanx of black-clad SWAT members was cautiously advancing with their guns at the ready. Neal was the first person they dragged out onto the tarmac and Peter’s heart was suddenly in his throat. That was a hell of a lot of blood on his CI. Ignoring his own safety and Hughes’ shouts of protest, he sprinted forward and knelt down beside Neal who looked confused and groggy.

“Neal, did you get wounded?” he anxiously demanded to know. “Tell me, Buddy, how bad is it?”

“That blood isn’t all his,” one of the SWAT team guys answered for a disoriented Neal as he swaggered up. “The other dude’s been gut-shot and is holding on by a thread. My guess is he’ll crash and burn before he ever reaches any hospital.”

Neal’s hearing may have been temporarily impaired, but he still was able to decipher that horrible bit of intel. “My God, Peter, I just somehow managed to kill two people,” he whispered miserably before turning to the side and vomiting copious amounts of bile onto the concrete. Peter felt helpless, and all he could do was place a comforting hand on the young man’s shoulder.

“Motion sickness,” Neal finally was able to mutter, but Peter knew better.

~~~~~~~~~~

Later that night, Peter was seated beside Neal on an ER gurney as a resident was cleaning the laceration over his eye and using butterfly strips to neatly close it.

“Don’t worry, Buddy, you’ll still look handsome,” Peter teased. “If you have a scar, it will give your face character.”

Neal sighed. “If I’m left with a scar, it’s a distinguishing mark that people can describe, and that’s not a good thing. A con man should blend in and definitely not be memorable.”

Peter smiled widely. “Sorry, Neal, but I hate to break it to you—there's no way you’ll ever blend in. People, especially women, always fondly remember your pretty face in great detail.”

“It’s my curse,” Neal heaved another sigh. He was interrupted from saying anything more because Reese Hughes suddenly pulled apart the curtains in the cubicle and glared.

“Caffrey, what in the hell was going though that weirdly convoluted mind of yours?” he hissed. “You could have gotten yourself and Jones killed tonight.”

“Well, I may have been a bit impulsive,” Neal squirmed as he pasted on a cheeky grin, “but I just couldn’t picture myself spending my days in Newfoundland. I’ve been there before, and no offense to the Canadians, but I prefer my beaches to be white and sandy with gorgeous women in bikinis delivering drinks to me with little umbrellas in them.”

“Why do I even try to have a conversation with you?” Hughes said in disgust. “I’ll just have to move on to Agent Jones and read him the riot act.”

“Aw, c’mon, Sir,” Neal cajoled. “Clinton Jones is the man of the hour and my personal hero.” Hughes just scowled as he stomped off.

“Did Hughes just flounce out of here?” Neal asked quizzically. “Yep, I think I would definitely call that flouncing. Now, that’s something you don’t see the old man do very often. He’s usually an uptight old curmudgeon with not the slightest flair for a dramatic exit.”

“Don’t you ever turn it off, Neal?” Peter chuckled.

“Not really,” the young man admitted. “If I did decide to get serious, the sorry state of my life might be too much for me to handle.”

“I suppose I can understand that, Buddy,” Peter whispered softly as he sought to change the painful subject.

“Scuba divers fished the second perpetrator out of the water and now we have an ID on both men because their fingerprints were on file in the system. They were each recently released from Sing Sing penitentiary after serving time for various assaults and grand theft auto, to name just a few of their crimes. They served out long sentences, so maybe you might have run into them during your own incarceration.”

“Nope, I didn’t recognize them after they took off their masks,” Neal claimed before adding more to the conversation. “It’s quite obvious, Peter, that you are laboring under some gross misconceptions. There are no fraternity kegger parties in prison where we hold ‘meet and greets’ and pledge,” Neal said sarcastically. “Sing Sing had over 2,000 guests while I was there, and I really didn’t have time to make everyone’s acquaintance.”

“That’s good to know,” Peter replied drolly before adding a caveat. “Unfortunately, Neal, the sad truth is that we are judged by the company we keep.”

Neal cocked his head and asked mischievously, “You hang out with me quite a lot, Peter, so, what does that say about you?”

The FBI agent snorted. “It says that I’m probably crazy, and, thanks to you, most likely suffering from PTSD,” he answered with a grin. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Good to know, Peter,” Neal echoed his handler’s words as he returned the warm smile. “Well, Buddy, since you’re feeling so magnanimous towards your injured CI, maybe you could spot me a couple of Franklins. I plan on taking June out for a really upscale dinner to celebrate my fortuitous survival!”

“Don’t push it, Neal!” Peter deadpanned.


End file.
